


Disarray

by thisworldisawhore



Series: Teratoma [7]
Category: Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bisexual Alan Frog, Biting, Bonus Material, Choking, D/s undertones, David has a plot, Drabbles, Fingering, M/M, Mentions Rimming, Mentions of Masturbation, Michael is a good brother, Oh god this is filth, Oral Sex, Pain Kink, Panic Attack, Rough Foreplay, Sam has interesting mind powers, Sam is almost normal again as a vampire, Self-feeding, Sibling Incest, Will add more tags as is relevant, forgive me god, im so goddamn sorry, mild dirty talk, mild face fucking, vampire!Sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2020-03-08 01:29:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 17,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18885361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisworldisawhore/pseuds/thisworldisawhore
Summary: Bonus material & spin off material from Teratoma.—”Listen, bud. He’s not here, and you’re not invited in, so you can go ahead and leave.”





	1. Sam & David

**Author's Note:**

> I’m baaaack. I wrote out notes for Equilibrium, and thought there’s no reason I can’t do each of the drabbles I write in a multi-chaptered mess.
> 
> Who says I have to finish it? It’s finished when I say it is, right?
> 
> Anyway. Here’s one for the road.

“Listen, bud. He’s not here, and you’re not invited in, so you can go ahead and leave.” 

And wouldn’t you fucking know, David swings his legs over that fucking windowsill anyway. 

“Doesn’t work on your own kind, _bud_ ,” David says. 

And _of fucking course_ , David has to be in his head, too. Vampires. Ugh. (And that tone. God, it’s like all of Mike’s girlfriends all over again—fuck Mike one time and suddenly you develop a _tone._ ) 

Sam rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. “Well, whether or not you _can_ , the sentiment remains. You’re not welcome.” 

“I’m wounded, Sam. Really.” David stands to his full height, which honestly isn’t that impressive, Sam thinks, and dusts himself off as if he needs it. Sam’s a fan of theatrics, but seeing them in someone else strips the appeal. “You’d think we could get along by now. We are fucking the same person, after all.” 

It’s not a surprise; or, rather, it is _is_ , because there’s a difference between feeling around in Alan’s head and finding it, and hearing it out loud. He can feel David’s amusement over the barb. 

Then David is looking around the room, taking stock and not quite meeting Sam’s eye. Sam gazes at him warily. 

“Is that why you’re here?” _To fight me?_ , he thinks, then continues on to clarify it a different way. David is still eyeing the scenery like he’s fixated, and it’s frankly unnerving. “Alan’s not here, if that’s why you’re here. I already told you before you barged in here.” 

David’s brows raise but he seems to be going in slow motion, mind still on something else. His eyes finally find their way back to Sam. 

“No,” he says simply. “A couple hunters have been watching this place.” 

_And?_ , Sam thinks. 

“You’re a target, Sam.” 

Sam makes a face. It’s the silliest thing he’s ever heard, why would he be a target, he’s one of them. Then, _oh_. Because he’s not. Not anymore. 

“I’ll be fine,” Sam says, because it hasn’t quite sank in yet. “Appreciate the concern, but.” 

David takes a step closer. His hands are out, bared. He slows his words like Sam might take them in if he just adds enough weight to them. 

“If you stay here,” David says. “You will die.” 

Die? Sam wrinkles his nose. “Didn’t plan on it, actually, but thanks.” 

It’s not exactly a prospect, but are they really going to kill him? David’s in his head again. Sam can only feel him because he spends so much time in his own fucking head that he knows when someone else prods around. 

“You’re one of us now.” 

“Us?” Sam asks. “There’s no ‘us’ left. You’re alone. You have been for a long time, buddy.” 

It’s the wrong thing to say, Sam realizes as soon as he’s said it and David’s face contorts into something cruel. After this many years it’s hard to remember that the vampire in front of him is the same one whose entire family they killed that many years ago. 

David’s expression levels back out. “You’re a vampire, Sam. They’ve already found you. And they will kill you. Soon.” 

David’s eyes are assessing the room again, mapping it out in his head. Sam has been pushing up against his mind trying to read what’s really going on, and he catches a tendril that David intentionally lets slip. 

He’s weaving a scene together in his mind, taking the present and calculating how to warp it into something else. A death scene. 

David can feel the quick jerk of horror that comes from Sam, because this is real, there are hunters lurking around, they know, and Sam could die. 

“You’ll have to come with me,” David offers.


	2. David/Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David’s hand lands on his collar, gentle until it’s not. Claws rip into the skin and his clavicle gives a low crunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going through some of my old files. Forgot about this one. It’s rather dark, but I love the idea of Alan having this strange headspace when it comes to David, so... 
> 
> Here’s some short David/Alan foreplay for ya.
> 
> P.S., don’t expect regular updates from me.

Alan thinks of David’s sleepy eyes, the v of his hips and the stretch of muscle when he’s pulling low slung jeans back into some semblance of decency, if there is even such a thing when David’s concerned. It comes unbidden the same as most thoughts.

David’s hand lands on his collar, gentle until it’s not. Claws rip into the skin and his clavicle gives a low crunch. 

Alan hisses a breath in through a grimace, but David can feel the exact moment his fangs drop a second later. The muscle of his back rolls in a shuddering wave all the way down and there’s so much blood and David’s mouth is on the wound, his tongue in the grooves his fingers left behind. And oh, it’s fucking exquisite, the things David’s tongue does to those wounds. 

When David pulls back, he wraps those bloodied fingers around his throat, presses against his pulse until Alan can feel the pound of blood around his eyes, straining against David’s hand. 

He’s lightheaded, but watching David with eyes half lidded. His fangs are still down. A bead of blood forms on his lower lip where they’ve nicked. The blood from his shoulder is still pulsing, but slowing, and the feel of skin and bone knitting itself back together is almost delicious. He tongue swipes over the cut on his lip. 

David is appraising him, watching for something as Alan pants and his vision dims a little around the edges. Alan’s hands come up to David’s, not pulling him away, not yet. His eyes slip closed and he licks his lips again, mindless. His hips roll forward. 

When David finally lets go, Alan’s want is almost tangible, an awareness like molten metal. Like the copper tang of old pennies.


	3. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Sam! There's a mirror piece to this, as foreshadowed (because I'm big on foreshadowing, repetition, and mirroring), but I've still got more work to do on it.
> 
> Alternately, _A Good Brother, Part I._

After the funeral, Lucy was calm and rational like maybe Phoenix is safer and maybe it's best for everyone if they go back. Sam wouldn't have to worry about triggers or vampires or reconciling a friendship he didn't even ruin. And maybe if he was a better person, he'd think of Edgar, what Edgar has left after this stupid thing, but Sam isn't and he's just thinking that he needs time to feel fucking sorry for himself before he moves on and thinks of a future or a new start or whatever the fuck Lucy has in mind. Maybe if he were a better person he would have thought of his own brother, what this has to be like for Michael.

Later, after they've all gone back "home" and Sam's the only one left, just another ghost haunting an old cabin stuffed (literally _stuffed_ ) full of them, Alan comes back and Sam knows one thing. Once he left, a good brother would have _stayed_ gone. A good brother wouldn't put Edgar through this mess. This gravitation, like Alan's the moon, pulling away until the ocean turns to chaos. Leaving Edgar sane one minute and heading on down the shoreline the next, never knowing he's got a choice. He's going to end up in fucking Mexico one of these days, they'll name him _cazador_ and they'll believe in his delusions more than anyone here ever did but he'll still be called away, scared and battered, following the tide. Forever under the stupid spell of some cold piece of rock. 

Before he ever turns, Sam begins to wonder if maybe Phoenix _is_ the better option. But Sam feels that pinprick of the apocalypse just over the horizon and he knows, Phoenix or no Phoenix, there's no hiding from it.


	4. Michael & Sam (slash if you squint)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But it’s a long drive, longer still on a bike, and Sam will be waiting.
> 
> -
> 
> Michael.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new one. This is the part I to Ch3’s mirror piece, or alternately _A Good Brother, Part II._
> 
> I’m trying not to slash Michael & Sam in this but I usually feel like I’m failing. So read it however you like.

 

Sam calls once a week or so and talks to Lucy and sometimes Michael. Lucy asks about Phoenix, when Sam is coming, but Sam always says he’s in the middle of something. (Sometimes Michael suspects that Sam thinks that’s true.) 

Holding the receiver closer to his face, Michael asks in low tones if Sam’s staying out of trouble and hopes that Sam knows what he means. 

“Mike, I haven’t been on a hunt in ages now. Things went to hell. You know that,” Sam says, like that’s the only trouble he could get into. 

“Things can change fast, Sammy. I just want to know that you’re safe.” 

Michael can almost hear Sam rolling his eyes, but it doesn’t quite carry to his voice. “Jeez, thanks, Mike. I expected the protection speech from Mom, but I guess this will do.” 

“That’s not what I meant, Sam.” 

“Fine,” Sam sighs. “I’m good, Mike,” he says, and it’s almost not a lie. It’s almost enough for Michael to believe it. 

Then Sam calls one night, little more than a year later, and Michael _knows_. 

It’s not out of the ordinary. He talks to Lucy first, and she asks, as always, about Phoenix, when can we expect you here. And Sam answers, as always, that he’s kind of busy at the moment. (Lucy sometimes will ask Michael if he thinks Sam has a _boyfriend_. For Lucy’s sake, Michael will smile.) 

Then Sam asks for Michael and Lucy says, “Sure, honey, he’s right here,” and reaches the phone to him. 

“Hey, Sammy,” Michael says, tugging on the coiled line and pulling it toward the next room. The line isn’t quite long enough to do more than step behind the entranceway so Lucy can’t hear him as well or read the tension in his shoulders. 

“Mike,” Sam says, and Michael’s immediately at attention. It’s innocuous, but flat and not his normal greeting. 

“What’s going on?” There’s already a thread of worry in his voice. He finds it there every time Sam calls, and sometimes by the end he can shake it, or at least feel it loosen until the next time. 

“Nothing,” Sam says, but he’s distracted. _This isn’t good_ , Michael thinks, but he tells himself that he’s being ridiculous, that this is normal, the _new_ normal, this hollowed out version of Sam. 

Sam took Grandpa’s death as hard as Lucy did, and afterwards even harder. It wasn’t Sam’s fault. It turned out Grandpa had been watching Widow Johnson for a long time, and that Sam and the Frog brothers having ended up there for that undead party was a coincidence. It would have probably ended the same either way; there just wouldn’t have been a body left to bring home if they hadn’t known. 

And Michael barely keeps the Frogs straight in his head, the names he can mostly keep right with the stories these days but no matter how many times they were at the cabin, he never quite could put a name to a face. At the time it didn’t seem to matter—they were the same as far as Michael was concerned. Twins, maybe. 

But Michael knows one of them didn’t make it home that night either. There was no body. According to Sam, he lived. A few weeks after Lucy had found a nice one story house to rent with flowered yellow vinyl on the kitchen floor, when they had just moved in and Star had ironically found work at a video store and had to pull overnight shifts on the weekend, Sam had called late and had talked to Michael for a long while. 

Sam never went into specifics, but according to Sam it happened too fast. The day before and the car ride there had been strange (Michael wonders what could have possibly been _stranger_ for the two of them), and Alan Frog, who Michael is at least able to keep straight in this story, had bolted into the night. 

Michael thinks sometimes that Sam blames himself for that, too, as if he could have done anything if Alan had already turned. As if he hadn’t lost his grandfather that night, too. But these months later, it’s the Frogs that Sam still talks about. 

_I have to find Edgar, Mike, but he doesn’t want to talk to me. I don’t know what_ do. And Michael will try, with varying degrees of success, to keep from gritting his teeth, to keep from telling Sam to leave it the fuck _alone_. Because Sam never says it in so many words, but Michael has a hunch the other one has turned back up. Michael has a hunch that he’s too close for (Michael’s) comfort. 

Michael almost forgets that now Sam’s still on the line. A pot slides down in the sink where Lucy’s starting to do the dishes, and the crash of it comes as a jolt. He winds a finger in the coiled line of the receiver. 

“Sammy,” he says. 

If Sam noticed the lapse he doesn’t say anything. A quick _hmm_ on his end is all that Michael gets back. 

“Sam,” he starts again, putting the receiver more firmly against his face. That thread of worry is inching closer to desperation. “I need you to tell me that you’re safe. That you’re alright.” 

“I’m fine, Mike,” Sam says, but the silence has already dragged on for too long. 

“What kind of trouble have you gotten into?” Michael finally whispers. 

“Well,” Sam says, quicker this time. “About that...” The chime of Sam’s nervous laugh makes his hackles rise. 

“I’m coming,” Michael says hurriedly and tries not to rush back to the kitchen, not to worry their mom. When he pulls his hand back from the receiver after hanging up, it jumps back off the base with a clatter. His finger is still coiled in the line. 

Star is blessedly absent while he hurries to pack a bag. 

“Michael, how was Sam?” Lucy calls over her shoulder, hands still wet and covered in suds. She shakes them off and grabs a towel, then pulls up short when she turns around. “Michael, what’s wrong?” She eyes his bag warily. 

“Nothing.” He winces as soon as it leaves his mouth, too forceful, almost a yell. “Nothing,” he tries again, quieter this time. “Nothing’s wrong, Sam’s fine, I just—“ and he finds that he’s not sure what he intends to say. His fingers flex against the strap of his bag. 

“I just need to go,” Michael finishes lamely. 

In the end, it’s Lucy that pleads with him not to, her hands wringing the dish towel she dried them with. He hopes his reassurances only sound false to him because he knows that they are, but Lucy doesn’t seem any more placated by them. (“That _place,_ ” she says.) 

Michael looks back toward the living room and Star has reappeared. Like so many times in the past, her eyes are wide and knowing, but her expression cool. He gives her a nod, which she acknowledges with an upward tick of her chin. 

Michael doesn’t realize until he’s outside under the shed strapping down his bag that she didn’t offer to come with him. Didn’t even ask if he wanted her to. It’s alright, because Sam needs _him_ and his undivided attention and he didn’t _want_ to tell her no, but he wonders if it means something. 

But it’s a long drive, longer still on a bike, and Sam will be waiting. 

 

 


	5. Michael(/David)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael. A (short) dream sequence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a part III lurking around, but this isn’t quite it. A short break, though. (ps, i’m literally begging for anyone to interact with me.)

 

 

Michael dreams of flying, high over the water and the boardwalk, over the cliffs and coastline. Sometimes he seems to be alone, and others he can feel someone with him, but always it feels so _natural_ that it’s almost painful to wake up back in Phoenix. 

Other nights he dreams of the caves, but the muted warmth of the main room isn’t there. It’s cold and lifeless, the color drained out of it. When he calls out there’s no response, not even the flutter of wings. 

He’s standing on the boardwalk, but the lights are off and it’s deserted. It must be near midnight because the moon hangs heavy in the sky. The coastal wind rattles the Ferris wheel and whistles between the shop signs while the waves break in the background. 

He can hear the shriek of bats getting closer.  
  
  
  



	6. Michael & Sam (slash if you squint)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who did this to you?” And there’s murder in Michael’s eyes, as if he can do anything about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m on a roll these days.

 

 

Sam’s hands and arms are covered in scabs and half-healed wounds. Michael knows they’ll be gone as soon as he sleeps, but the burning rage he feels doesn’t care about that. He grabs Sam more forcefully than he intends.

“Who did this to you?” And there’s murder in Michael’s eyes, as if he can do anything about it. 

“Relax,” Sam says, pulling away. “Those are from me.” 

Sam rubs over them, almost unconsciously. _And the rest?_ , Michael wants to say. _The teeth marks, the scratches. The ones you couldn’t have caused._

“A little auto-erotic blood-letting never hurt anyone,” he says like it’s all some big joke. “Don’t act like you never tried it.” 

Michael wants to scream. Sam slips out in the night to feed, this Michael knows, he loses too much blood not to, and while some of it goes back into Sam, Michael isn’t stupid. He knows some of it doesn’t. 

But he hasn’t fully turned yet. Animals, Michael guesses. Someone else’s leftovers, more likely. Sometimes he wants to ask whose. Sometimes he thinks it’s better if he doesn’t know. 

“I saw David, you know,” Sam starts, and it’s funny how quickly the cold washes over Michael. “He didn’t die.” 

And how many nights has Michael lain awake, consumed with something not unlike remorse for killing him? How many times has something in him wished some part of it could have went differently? 

He got the girl. He got out with his life. His normal self asks, _What more could he want?_ And yet there’s that gnawing part of him that still opens into a yawning void, a hollowness in him that asks for the things he can’t have. It comes and it goes, it ebbs and it flows, but more often than not in the years since, there’s an open chasm that he falls into when he only wants to live a normal human life. 

“He’s alive?” Michael asks before he can think better of it, and Sam doesn’t miss the almost hopeful note in his voice. 

“You did a number on him, Mike,” Sam says, and he only knows because he’s pulling from Alan’s mind, only knows because the image of his scars is so poignant. But Michael can’t see it, Sam can’t push that image into his mind awake like this, and Sam doesn’t want to invade on Michael’s mind anyway. “But, yeah, he’s alive.” 

“ _I_ did a number on _him_?” Michael laughs, but there’s a shakiness in it that tells Sam now’s the time to back down. Michael shakes his head, then freezes. He looks at Sam’s arms. 

“He didn’t—?” 

“No,” Sam snorts. “God, no.” 

When Michael visibly relaxes, Sam fights the urge to scoff. He’s not sifting around in Michael’s mind, but there’s tendrils that float from it that sometimes he can read. It’s not quite jealousy; Michael’s relieved that Sam hasn’t given him a reason to hate David. And that in itself is so typically Michael—he’s already forgotten the anger for the shape Sam’s in and he’s focused instead on David. 

Sam didn’t see it for a long time, chose not to see it, but now he knows part of Michael loved David, and that part of him irrevocably changed Michael. Sam wonders if Michael ever realized it or if he’s still in the dark himself. 

“I’m not saying—“ Sam starts but can’t quite get his thoughts together for what he wants to say. “Don’t—“ 

Sam sighs. “He’s alive, or you know, but he hasn’t...” _Hasn’t changed_ , he wants to say. 

“Yeah,” Michael says. He’s started to look dazed, further away and haunted in the way he always does when something reminds him of then. They had tried not to before Phoenix, but it seemed like _anything_ and everything could suck him under. Lucy wanted to move them back as much for Michael as for Sam and Sam had hoped so much that it helped Michael. 

“I probably shouldn’t have said anything,” Sam says after a beat. Michael’s been there for two weeks now and it’s the first he’s said about it, but he thinks maybe Michael should have went the rest of his life thinking David was dead. “I just, I don’t know, thought maybe you should know?” 

“No,” Michael says, all one-syllable, one-word answers while his head tries to wrap around it. “Thanks.” 

Michael scrubs his face with one hand, looks at the downstairs windows and says, finally, “It’s nearly dawn. I think it’s time to head to sleep.” 

Sam agrees, then on a whim: “Hey, can I—?” 

Michael smiles at him like Sam’s so much younger and not the train wreck he’s become. “Yeah, Sammy,” he says. “Come on.”  
  
  
  



	7. Alan/Edgar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place the same night Edgar drinks in Equilibrium. I’ll post the porn later. Just wanted to give an update since my schedule is hectic this month.
> 
> There’s a part III to A Good Brother that I haven’t finished yet, btw.

 

 

Later, back in shorts and sprawled on the bed, one of Alan’s legs presses against Edgar’s, and the hair tickles and it’s too hot in here, it’s fucking California summer after all, but it reminds him, achingly, of their life before. 

“There was a bottle of bourbon,” Alan says, starting off staring at the ceiling like he always did. He talks about turning. How it could have been a hangover but it started in the middle of the day. How he had cut his thumb open on a box cutter before he gave it up for the night and drank; how the next day his own blood around the mouth of the bottle was all he could think of, but he still didn’t know. 

But Edgar is human, he’s fucked out and blood drunk, and there’s only so much of this conversation that he can follow right now. “Why didn’t you...?” Edgar asks, voice no more than a whisper, and part of him hopes Alan doesn’t even hear, hopes that he never has to know why Alan chose to leave or why he stayed gone. 

Alan’s laugh is bitter, and Edgar’s already half asleep, barely holding on, and his vision swims but he can see the twist of Alan’s face. This isn’t where he meant for it to go, not to this, and he rolls into his side, reaches out and lays a hand on Alan’s stomach, a peace offering. An anchor. It takes Alan by surprise. 

“I had to keep you safe. I didn’t know what I was capable of, and the things I wanted... I fed within days because I couldn’t trust myself, and—“ and the words keep pouring out of him, tumbling over one another, and it’s trite but it’s true, but it doesn’t matter in the long run because Edgar’s already asleep.   
  
  
  



	8. Alan/Edgar + David

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confession, part II.

 

 

Edgar wakes up to the strike of a lighter, the burning waft of cigarette smoke. It’s still dark and at first he thinks of Alan whose presence haunted most of his nights in the past, but Alan is beside of him now, which means there’s someone besides Alan here. 

He jolts mostly upright and scuttles backward against the wall, blindly seeking a little extra distance until he can figure out what’s going on. His first thought is of the few hunter contacts he has left and his heart seizes violently, a fear more for his brother than for himself even though he knows Alan can outmaneuver more than he knows, and Edgar? Well, Edgar _can’t_. He can only hope they don’t know (or put it together). 

“Alan,” he warns, sharp and low, and hopes Alan can sense this, that there’s someone here and he (they) might need to run. 

But Alan rises unhurriedly, sitting up slowly with a soft sleepy noise. Edgar sees him tense out of the corner of his eye, but it lasts only half a second before his shoulders slump again and Alan turns to face him, rubs a hand over his face and groans. 

Then a light on the other end of the camper turns on, seemingly on its own, in time to see the man blow out a cloud of smoke. Edgar doesn’t recognize him at first, but that doesn’t always mean a lot in this business because calls get made, that he knows, and there’s a certain level of anonymity expected that keeps circles small. The man’s eyes are trained on Alan, and that doesn’t ease the fear in him because they _would_ be, then they dart to Edgar and the man winks so quick Edgar isn’t sure if he saw it at all. 

Recognition hits him like a bucket of ice water. He’s different. The clothes a few shades lighter even if the jacket is the same, and his hair isn’t the peroxide mess it was nearly a decade ago—traded in for a more natural (forgettable, Edgar realizes) blond combed neatly to the side—but it’s the same man, or boy, or whatever David was. 

“Al—“ he starts again, but his brother is still beside him even as Edgar’s hands pat uselessly around him. Alan looks at him then, pushes a thought to him, that it’s _fine_ , it’s _okay_ , and Edgar is ready to argue with him before he realizes, oh. His brain doesn’t want to quite put it together, that Alan is acting like this has happened before, that maybe this happens _often_ , and why the _fuck_ is David here, why is David _anywhere_ , _how_ , and David’s _alive_? 

He shoots quick glances at Alan, who gives nothing away, at the door which is nearly the length of the camper away from them, and back to the threat in the room. Alan brushes his smallest finger against the back of Edgar’s hand, another small calming gesture and Edgar wonders still what the _fuck_ is going on. 

Then Alan is up, walking toward David, reaches out, and David... looks away. It takes Edgar a moment, until he sees the pack, that Alan is asking for a cigarette, like this is a normal, natural exchange between them. And a moment again to realize that the pack David pulls out of his pocket is Alan’s to begin with. They were on the counter earlier, before David took their place. 

Alan starts to walk behind the counter, to steer David’s eyes away, give Edgar some sort of a break, but David stops him from passing the counter with an outstretched hand. 

“Back over here,” he says. “I don’t know your brother, Alan.” 

It’s a lie. He does know Edgar. Knows Edgar has still done some solo hunting in the years between, knows him as well, Alan is sure, as David knew him when he turned. And knows just as well now, if his smirk is anything to go on, that that life is over for Edgar. (And Edgar realizes, in that moment, that David is the head vampire. David is who Alan would have had to have killed. He doesn’t even think of himself; just wonders why Alan didn’t.) 

Alan doesn’t ask why he’s there. It’s old hat between them now. David’s heard it so many times and Alan’s learned over the years that he’ll get to his point when he gets to it. The way they look at each other, it’s a tug of war. Alan not budging, and David—if the low chuckle and the light in his eyes is anything to go by—winning anyway. There’s an intimacy in it that makes Edgar uncomfortable. 

David glances at Edgar, then says to Alan: “Thought you’d like to know that Sam’s fine.” 

And Edgar? 

Edgar nearly breaks, because Sam was _dead_ , he was _gone_ , and Edgar thinks of that phone call, the one he made and the one he got in response, that _one of those suckers burnt up in there_ , and oh god, Sam’s alive? He’s trembling by the end of the thought, but that’s not what breaks him. 

What breaks him is that _Alan had to have known_. 

The room narrows, further than it already was, until Edgar is scrambling backwards again, toward the furthest wall, on his feet. He feels like he can’t breathe. 

He must have rattled something, the wall itself maybe, because Alan gives David one last hard stare before coming over to him. But, oh, it’s not the right thing, because he _knew_ , he had to have known, but Edgar can’t keep himself in one piece long enough to swing, can just push him uselessly away. 

“You knew,” Edgar gasps. He’s leaning over, forward, winded even though he hasn’t done anything at all, and he hasn’t felt something quite like this panic. Because, oh, Sam was gone, Edgar was alone, and _he made his choice_ , _he drank_ , and oh god... 

“I didn—“ Alan starts to deny, then David cuts him off, “Guess you didn’t recognize the wine, huh?” Alan glares daggers at him, because did David really fucking come here to pull this shit? 

“Why didn’t he—“ _tell me he was okay_ , Edgar wants to ask but he still can’t fucking _breathe_ and the words won’t come out. “Why didn’t he,” _call_ , but Alan seems to understand him just the same. 

“Edgar,” he says gently, pushing his hair back, trying to ground him. “Ed, you wouldn’t _answer_ him,” and then Edgar’s sobbing. Weak, wracking, breathless sobs, and Alan is trying to pull Edgar against him despite his shoving hands. 

He glares back over his shoulder at David, who just shrugs and then disappears.  


  
  
  



	9. Sam & David

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something lighthearted.

 

 

“Sam, if you jerk off in here one more time, I’m going to have to have the place aired out.” 

Sam is sprawled across one of the couches, one leg hooked over the back. David saved him from firey death, and now he wants to put him on a _schedule_? Fuck off. He raises up long enough to make a face and a lewd gesture, then rolls his eyes at the ceiling. 

What _else_ was there to do here? 

David pops back in, an afterthought: “It’s underground, you know? Cleaning crews aren’t exactly all over it.” 

Sam throws one of the couch’s musty throw pillows in the direction of the stairs. 

David’s retreating laughter echos.   
  
  
  



	10. Michael & Sam (slash if you squint)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Good Brother, part III.  
> Or something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hasty deletion. I decided to add a few more words.

 

 

The weeks draw on much in the same way. Michael spends a few days a week pulling odd jobs at the boardwalk, mostly picking up trash like when he first arrived in Santa Carla years prior, but sometimes other gigs and other shifts. The work is easy, mind numbing, and his dreams aren’t clouded with the place anymore, not since being back. 

Grandpa’s check still comes in like clockwork, and he suspects it’s less to do with scamming them and more to do with how do you explain that vampires killed him, and Sam hardly touches that money, hardly leaves the house at all, but Michael needs something to do to feel like less of a burden. There’s more food in the house by a mile now that Michael’s staying. 

Sometimes Michael picks up trash at night. Most of those nights he finds Sam slipped out a window, or sometimes worse: he hears what seems to be someone _else_ sneaking out a window and Sam comes bounding through the hall and down the stairs with more force than necessary, like it makes up for the ungodly squeal of that window. Michael supposes it could have been Sam sneaking _in_ , but he’s not dumb. 

“Hey, Mike,” Sam says, only somewhat forced. “I think I could eat tonight, if there’s anything left to fix.” 

Michael nearly does a double take. “There’s hamburger in the fridge still,” he finally says. 

“That sounds great. Just let me get cleaned up first,” Sam says, turning back toward the stairs. 

Michael pretends not to notice that there’s darkness popping up in tiny blossoms on the back of Sam’s shirt. Pointedly doesn’t think how it must look without the shirt, and tries not to wonder what Sam gets out of this because every time he does he wonders if Sam’s only choosing it because it _hurts_. 

That final fight, when they had killed Max and the rest of the boys, had _thought_ they killed David, it had hurt. It was _meant_ to hurt, they weren’t scrapping for anything other than their lives. But he can remember when David’s nails cut into his forearms, right before Michael flipped them and threw him into the antlers. There was pleasure threaded into it, and the sharp surprise of it was half of why they changed course. Half of why David ended up where he did. 

Michael has to wonder, from that, if he’s wrong. If Sam is really doing this because it’s _good_ , but he sees Sam every single day of this and Sam never seems happy. 

And sometimes Michael thinks about the head vampire. How quickly Sam rushed in to save Michael not that many years ago, armed with a squirt gun of holy water and two military styled kids with more knowledge than experience. Michael wonders if he should offer—if he should find the head vampire at least, put up some sort of cursory effort, and he brings it up to Sam late one night as Sam’s curled up on the foot of his bed. 

“Mike,” and Sam’s laughing quietly, sadly. “It’s David,” he says. “David is the head vampire.” 

Michael’s throat closes in, even thought it shouldn’t. “Sam, I—“ and he’s earnest, but he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if he can say it at all, that it doesn’t _matter_ , Michael can do _something_ anyway, it shouldn’t have to matter that it’s David... 

Sam laughs again. “It does matter, Mike. You walked out of that last time because he let you.” 

Michael wants to argue, wants to push it because Sam needs him, and Sam would have faced down those same odds for him, Sam _did_ face down those same odds for him, and he needs Sam to understand that... 

“You wouldn’t kill him anyway,” Sam says, so breezy and factual that Michael raises half off of the bed like he might fight for his honor. Then he says: “I don’t know if I want to go back, Mike.” 

It’s a punch to the gut and Michael at first wants to believe that Sam’s saying something else, he’s talking about Phoenix, and yeah, he might be, but Sam’s talking about what Michael thinks he’s talking about, too. 

“Is that bad?” Sam asks, and Michael notices now that Sam’s eyes are a little watery, and Michael pulls himself down the bed to lay next to Sam, sideways on the foot of the bed. 

Some part of Michael realizes if he had said that to Sam, Sam would have fought it tooth and nail. A part of Michael wants to. And another part breathes out a sigh of relief that he doesn’t have to, doesn’t have to face David. In this moment, he wishes that part of himself wasn’t there at all. 

But it’s that part that lets him pull Sammy against him, even though they’re both grown men now. It’s that part of him that’s able to tell Sammy that he understands. 

And he _does_. 

Michael’s eyes may not be yellow anymore, but he understands why Sammy stays like this, scraped up arms and bleeding palms. It hurts, but Michael understands. And it’s that understanding that drove Michael here, that keeps him here with foil over the upstairs windows, with Sam in his bed half the nights. 

When Star calls a few nights later, asking when he’s coming home and there’s a thread in her voice that says maybe she doesn’t think he’s going to and maybe that would be okay, but he can hear Lucy in the background, can hear her silence louder than Star’s words, she talks to Sam but she’s still mad at Michael for choosing to go, and he thinks he’s going to stay here just a bit longer because Sammy deserves something more than abandonment. 

But in the end, it’s Sammy that pushes Michael away. And Michael, helpless, lets him. 

Michael waits outside his locked door one night. Sam’s been either gone or hiding for more than a week now, and Michael is wearing thin. When the squeal of the window shutting jolts him, Michael is pounding on the door. 

“Sam,” he pleads. “Sammy, please. Open the door.” 

“No,” he doesn’t sound angry. Just resigned. 

“Sammy,” he tries again, gritting his teeth, falling back down with his back against the door. “Whatever it is, we can fix it. We can—” 

“It’s too late, Mike.” 

And no, _no_ , it can’t be. “No, Sammy. No, it can’t—it can’t be too late.” 

He can hear Sam sigh this time. “It is, Mike. It’s done. _I’m_ done.” 

“No, Sam,” and Michael is close to tears. “No, no. Sam, please. Please just open the door,” and his fist slams into it, three quick jabs that sound at least like something similar to knocking. 

Sam doesn’t answer him. 

A week after that, Michael leaves for Phoenix, and the dreams start again.   
  
  
  



	11. Michael & Sam / Sam & David (David/Michael)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a ploy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This series is both killing me and giving me life, lmao.

 

 

In the months that follow, Sam still calls. Mostly he talks to Lucy, who begins every call with the same cheery, “Sam, sweetheart!” 

The first time Michael asks to speak to Sam, gripping the chair back so tightly his knuckles are white, Lucy says, “Sam, Michael wants to talk to you, okay? Let me just put him on.” 

Then there’s Sam’s clipped voice stuttering out how he doesn’t have time, not right now, he’s in the middle of something, he has to go, but he’ll call again soon, yeah? And Lucy’s falls in the middle of it, and says, “Yeah, that’s fine, honey. We’ll talk to you soon,” and then he’s gone. 

“Oh, Michael. He’s just busy right now, is all,” Lucy says. But Sam is gone, and Michael is still here, still gripping the chair back so tightly he’s afraid it’ll crack. 

Lucy doesn’t know, or if she does she doesn’t say. Michael wonders if she would say anything at all even if she did know. He wonders if she’s known all along, if that’s why she was so insistent Michael didn’t go back to Santa Carla. 

The second time Michael asks to speak to Sam, he can hear Sammy through the phone say, “Oh, mom, I’m sorry, I really thought I had time to call and talk to everyone, but uh, looks like I called at a bad time, I’ve got to go, I’m sorry,” and Sammy always was such a terrible, rambling liar. 

The third time, well, Michael doesn’t even ask. He hears Lucy pick up, her greeting, and then he’s bounding through the house to the bedroom line, and picks up the phone panting out Sam’s name. 

Lucy falters for a moment but doesn’t fight it. Simply says, “Well, boys, I’ll let you two talk,” and hangs up on her end. 

The silence is deafening. “Mike,” Sam finally says, trying to keep the wince from his voice. “I’m okay. Really.” 

Then the wall is finally breached, and more than Sam being okay, _they’re_ okay. Michael offers to come back, but Sam laughs, says _you’re needed there, bro. Gotta watch out for mom._

And Lucy must have told him, he realizes, that Star hasn’t been by much. He suspects soon that she won’t come home at all. Where they’re staying, Star and Laddie, he doesn’t know. Sometimes he thinks it better not to ask. 

Michael doesn’t hold it against her. He thinks, and to some degree he’s probably right, that it’s in her nature the same as his family is in his. And he doesn’t ever think, and this he knows is true, that she left because he went back. 

Sam’s calls get easier. They’re distracted a lot of the time. Sometimes he still talks about Edgar. He doesn’t mention David again. Michael wonders if he doesn’t know anything else or if Sam’s trying to spare him. 

Then one day he realizes it’s been more than a week since Sam’s called. Then two. Then three. 

\- 

\- 

\- 

All of a sudden Michael comes into Sam’s periphery. Like there’s a tripwire on the borders of town, _ping, Michael’s here._

And, oh, _shit_ , Michael’s _here_ in Santa Carla and Sam hasn’t called in weeks because there’s a shortage of phones down in the crumbling ruins of the hotel and every time Sam’s out to feed and thinks about it, David appears between him and whichever of the boardwalk’s payphones he’s nearest to. 

“Shit shit _shit_ ,” Sam says aloud, and because David knows Sam’s every fucking move, David is there too, silent as ever. “Michael,” he says, like David doesn’t know. 

And of course, David doesn’t say anything, because of course David knows. Of course David has some stupid awareness of practically everything. 

Sam’s hands itch to gather, to pull all his things together and get moving, but these days he doesn’t have anything. 

“I have to go,” he says. “I have to be there. Mike’s gonna flip,” Sam says. 

“No, you don’t, Sam,” is all David says. 

“Listen, pal. I saw what you did to that room. I can’t do that to Mike,” Sam says. His throat is tight just thinking of it. 

“Michael won’t see that,” he drawls. 

“Uh, yeah, he will. That’s the first place he’s going to look,” and it’s so damn obvious Sam begins to wonder if he’s wasting his breath. David can’t possibly be that dense. 

“But he won’t _see_ it, Sam,” David says more slowly, but not any clearer. “There’s the truth and there’s what you put over it.” 

“The truth?” Sam’s voice is incredulous. “The truth is that I have to go, David. Mike’s here and I can’t let him think I’m gone,” he says, and it’s a testament to how nervous he is that he uses David’s actual name. 

He moves to step past him, to run up the steps and what, _fly?_ , back to the cabin, thankful for somewhere to throw the nervous energy that had him bouncing from foot to foot in front of David, but David snaps out an arm. If Sam had been moving faster, David would have clotheslined him. 

“What the hell, man?” Sam blurts out, turning toward him. “I didn’t realize I was a prisoner here, buddy,” he says with far more steel in his voice than he feels, but he’s already squaring himself up for the fight if need be. 

David smiles—there’s the fight in him, David thinks—and Sam misreads it. Still puffed up, he shoves David a step backward. “He’s my _brother_.” 

David’s smile falters, but he makes no move to fight. “Look,” he says. 

“At what?” Sam snaps. There’s nothing here to fucking look at, but plenty for Michael to look at back home, and he’s got to get there, he’s got to head this off. 

Then he feels the impenetrable walls of David’s mind give, just a fraction, just enough for Sam to read, and oh. 

But all he sees is his dresser, a gleaming and frankly hideous jeweled bottle on it. The curtains of his room flutter and cast shadows on it, make it seem alive. 

And, really? This is it? 

Sam looks at him dubiously. “A bottle?” Sam’s eyes threaten to roll backwards. “You seriously just showed me a hideous bottle, you know that?” 

“Michael will know,” David says, and Sam realizes only because he’s been here for weeks that David is nonplussed. (David, meanwhile, realizes that Sam doesn’t recognize the wine bottle. He’s not sure what else he expected, really.) 

“Know what?” Sam asks, edging toward something unpleasant. 

“That you’re here, Sam,” David says, eyes boring into him. “He’ll come.” 

And then, Sam gets it, and he thinks for a delirious second that he might should sit down. 

Because it’s a ploy. 

It’s always been a ploy. 

This was about Michael all along.  
  
  
  



	12. Alan/Edgar (PORN)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the title didn’t warn you, this is 2.5k of unadulterated Frog porn. Takes place a few weeks after Edgar becomes half but hasn’t fully turned.
> 
> I didn’t feel like working on my other projects (or the other porn, sorry guys), so have some weird hella kinky d/s undertone Frog sex.
> 
> PS, I didn’t proofread this.

 

 

Alan runs his nails down Edgar’s chest, breaking the skin and his brother _keens_. That first hint of blood on the air has his fangs out. It’s his own blood, but oh, it’s _good_ , he _wants_. 

His hands come up to Alan’s wrist, rake down his forearms, and oh, when Alan’s blood spills he lets out a _sob_ , he wants it so fucking bad, please, just a taste, anything, Alan, _please_ , and his hips roll upward, fabric of his boxers already so damp that it leaves a slick barely-there trail on Alan’s thigh. 

Edgar doesn’t realize he’s babbling, hands still gripping Alan’s bleeding arms, until he leans in and breathes out a quiet “Shh,” against the side of his mouth. “You know how this works,” Alan whispers, breath tickling over Edgar’s mouth, against his teeth, and Edgar snaps then, trying to catch his brother’s full lip with his teeth. 

Alan pulls back in the nick of time and Edgar’s teeth clack together uselessly. “No,” he says, bringing a hand up to stroke Edgar’s face, and it’s _right there_ , it’s so strong, he can nearly taste it, he turns his face toward it and Alan yanks his hair. “No,” he repeats, harder this time though his breath shakes, and Edgar whines. 

“Alan. Alan, please, let me,” and his mouth is trembling, not quite sure what to do around the ache in his teeth. “Please,” he tries again, frustration welling in his eyes, his body restless and throbbing. Wrecked, writhing under him, and oh so beautiful—Alan nearly gives in, because he’s kept Edgar strung out in this limbo for weeks and he’s _hungry_ , god he has to be, and he’ll have to feed soon, there’s no way around it, but he’s so pliant like this that Alan’s blood burns with it. 

“Shhh,” Alan breathes again. His teeth are whispering against the side of Edgar’s throat, a hard threat drug gentle against his skin, and he knows this is what Edgar wants, second only to blood in his mouth, because Edgar bares as much skin as he can and the noises he makes are driving Alan insane. 

Alan trails off into wet, sucking kisses, forceful against his Adam’s apple, his collarbone. Edgar claws at his back with human fingers, digging into the soft flesh like he could spur him on. One of his thighs bumps against Alan’s and Alan takes pity on him, moves one leg in between Edgar’s instead of straddling him. Rocks down against him with his mouth still marking (but never breaking) the skin of his upper chest, and Edgar whimpers, bucking up. 

Edgar feels Alan’s rumbling moan against his chest, his human teeth bite savagely around a nipple, leaving red indents, then Alan’s rocking against him and the pleasure of it has Edgar arching, more broken noises and half formed pleads. 

It’s heady, the way Edgar’s voice spills out so raw like this, gravel in his throat spilling over into his voice. Alan trails a hand down, over his hip, grips his thigh and pulls it up higher, bracketing him and Edgar inhales, sharp and shaky, because there’s more than one kind of hunger. 

Edgar is leaking pre-come steadily, knows Alan can feel the damp stick of his boxers when he moves and Edgar’s erection slides along the skin above Alan’s boxers, but he’s been hard what feels like ages, since the first thought of blood on his teeth, half hard for the weeks Alan has strung him out like this, has ripped pleasure from him before feeding him, before just a taste... 

Alan leaves one more sucking, purple mark on his sternum, one more delicious roll of his hips that has Edgar panting, and then he pulls away. Edgar reaches out for him, half drunk, nearly blind with it, and teeth still too sharp. Alan thinks of the times before this, winding him up and Edgar touching him, finally and so blissfully good. 

He stretches, peeling the shirt up and off of his body, left only in boxers, and he doesn’t miss the way Edgar eyes the bulge in them with darkened eyes. He has to fight back the image, the feeling of Edgar’s desperate, needy mouth on his cock. His skin breaks out in goosebumps, because Edgar _would_ , this hunger is breaking him in, breaking him down, and Edgar gets bolder every day. 

It’s funny the way blood works, how everything funnels down to delirious need, and it’s funny too how that need can morph. Edgar’s teeth aren’t all the way down, still too sharp around the edges, but his body has moved on, latched to a different need. 

Edgar moves to sit up, to touch, and Alan lets him have his momentary fill of the planes of his chest, his abdomen. The touch of his brother’s hands is still new, still deliciously heady, and he wants them everywhere, wants his thick fingers inside him, wants... 

Alan palms at Edgar’s dick through his shorts, just a tease, and groans a little at the slick feel of the fabric. He pushes him back down and peels them off of him. Edgar’s cock slaps against his stomach, leaving another wet stain, and oh _fucking god_ , Alan pants, he’ll die if he can’t have him in his mouth. 

Alan peels his own boxers off with less finesse and gives his aching cock one quick squeeze, then he’s back on Edgar, working his mouth down his stomach, across his hips, down to his thigh where he leaves another blossoming bruise, worrying the skin hard between his teeth, sucking with everything in him until Edgar’s thighs shake with it, then finally, finally taking that silky, slick flesh into his hand, licking the taste off of him and working his mouth down over it. 

Edgar’s hips buck upward with a cry of his name, and Alan pushes them back down with the back of his arm. He bobs his head excruciatingly slow, pulling off on the way back up to worry his tongue against the head of his dick. Edgar’s hips still strain against his arm, and he moves it, sinking back down. 

Edgar’s hands are bunched in the sheets, a white knuckled death grip that Alan wishes was on him. Alan frees his hands, slides them along Edgar’s hips, kneads into the flesh of them. _Come on, little brother,_ he sends through to him, sends the feel of hair in his fingertips, wills him to thread his hands there. Spit and pre-come are building up his mouth, leaking down around the base of his brother’s dick. Edgar’s hands find their way to the back of his head. _Fuck into my mouth,_ he sends, and swallows around him. 

“Oh god, please,” Edgar begs above him. His hips snap up, making Alan groan around him. He builds a rhythm quickly, Alan trying to bob his head in time with him, the dirty feeling of fluid slipping out past his lips has him wanting to fist his own cock, but his hands are too busy kneading Edgar’s flesh, guiding him in into his mouth. He’s close, has to be, and Alan knows he’s going to have to back off, but not just this second. 

Then one of Edgar’s hands slips out of his hair, heads up toward his mouth. Alan pulls off of him, grips his wrist. Edgar whines, and Alan’s lips are red and swollen, chin slick with fluid, and voice breathless when he warns, “You better not.” Edgar squirms under him, pulling gently at the hand Alan has pinned down. Alan tries to hold his eyes, but Edgar’s keep lowering like he wants to lick the taste out of him. 

And there’s a thought—sucking him off, feeding the come back at him. Alan nearly goes cross eyed with it, dick twitching at the thought of it, but he has other plans. He ducks in and kisses Edgar’s mouth, lightening quick before he can bite, and watches Edgar lick at the skin, tongue careful around his teeth. 

Alan reaches for the slick beside the bed and thinks, oh god, of _Edgar’s cock inside of him, so deliciously fucking full, lit up from the inside with it_ , and he can feel a blurt of pre-come squeeze out of his own cock head. He thinks of Edgar fresh out of the shower just a few nights ago, skin still warm and damp, water beading off his hair, off his chest, and _bending him over, working him open with his tongue and fingers_ , and god, it’ll be a wonder if this lasts at all. He drops the slick at Edgar’s side, reaches down and gives himself a few quick tugs, anything to take the fucking edge off of this. 

Edgar is half-lidded watching, slides his eyes closed for a moment, mouth still parted, at the click of the cap opening. Alan thinks about making him beg, making him plead how badly he wants this, how much he wants to get off. Alan expected him to grow tense, but his body is still pliant and boneless, cock still achingly hard. Alan slides back down his body, hooks a hand under one knee and draws it up, settles between his legs. 

He works his mouth down Edgar’s inner thigh, the one he hasn’t marked. Drags his teeth along the skin, lips catching and dragging. Wet kisses, touch of tongue, he lets his teeth elongate, sinks just the tip of them into his flesh, just a nick, leaving two wet pinpricks of blood. 

Edgar groans because it’s not _enough_ , just a tease of teeth, a tease of blood in the air, but it’s exactly what Alan wanted, to get him squirming for more of whatever Alan deems fit to give him. Edgar’s gotten bolder, taking more for himself, soaking in the way Alan craves every touch like it’s both the first and last he’ll ever get, but now it’s easier to give Alan his fill of this process, this slow exploration. 

He slides his other leg up, lets his thighs fall open just a bit wider, and Alan’s slick cool fingers touch him at the same moment his tongue touches the burning skin of his thigh, a sharp contrast, neither unwelcome. Edgar sucks in a breath. 

Alan’s fingers move slow, unhurried. His thumb traces the rim, pressing but not breaching, smears an increasing amount of slick around him. There’s more cradled in his fingers. He presses the tip of one slick digit into him, feels him shudder, the slides it back out, the muscle fluttering and loosening. He uses the pad of his thumb to press more slick into him, small presses never breaching, and the image of thumbing come back into him comes to mind and Alan groans, the image so filthy-hot it has him biting back into Edgar’s thigh with blunt teeth. 

Edgar shifts when Alan teases one long digit up to the knuckle, pulling at the rim when he withdraws it. Alan draws it out far longer than necessary, draws it out until, when he adds more slick and slides a second finger inside, Edgar’s panting. 

Alan’s fingers curl, and oh god, he’s flushed, red and starting to rock back on Alan’s fingers as he gets a rhythm, an expanse of sweat dampened skin. Alan rubs his face against Edgar’s inner thigh, stubble stinging hot against the already abused skin, then pulls back. Edgar gives a low whine, the emptiness feeling suddenly strange, his insides pulsing desperately, as Alan slides back up to face him. 

And oh, Edgar’s cock is lying in a little puddle of fluid, a line connects it to his stomach when Alan wraps a slick hand around it and strokes. Edgar’s feet brace against the mattress, hips pressing _up_ , and from the roll of them and the angle Alan can tell that he’s still feeling the ghost of Alan’s fingers. Alan nips at his collar and neck as he slicks his dick, traces one last finger around the rim, slips it easily inside and Edgar arches for him with a low noise, and oh god this isn’t going to last. 

His fangs sink into the juncture of his shoulder, and Edgar arches up off the bed. “ _Alan,_ ” he moans raggedly, body rolling. It’s good, it’s good, _it’s good_ , it’s what he wanted, mm, his mind is all white noise and then Alan’s slick cock head presses against his hole, and oh god... 

Alan’s sucking gently at his skin, all soothing swipes of his tongue as he presses, presses, presses, and it _stings_ , it _burns_ , and then all at once the head slips in, and it’s _good_ , it’s _amazing_ , his mouth is hanging open, too overwhelmed for any sound, and Alan slides further and _further_ until Edgar is dizzy, wondering how much more burning _stretching_ he can possibly _take_ but it’s so fucking good he thinks he can die from it. 

Alan’s mind pushes up against his, and Alan’s the one groaning as he bottoms out, reading the dizzy, lust addled stream of praise. It’s a testament to _something_ that when he pulls back from Edgar’s shoulder and presses his forehead against him that Edgar doesn’t immediately lunge at the blood on his mouth. 

He pulls back an inch and rolls back in, and Edgar’s babbling again, “Alan, _please_ , please,” but he’s pleading for something else this time. Alan finally gets a rhythm with Edgar’s writhing body. Its _good_ and he kisses Edgar hard, the blood on his mouth smearing and Edgar groans, licking at his mouth and into it. The kiss gets rougher, lips bruising against the unforgiving press of teeth, and then Edgar is nipping at him, biting into his bottom lip and drawing blood. It spills down his chin and Edgar patches over the wound, sucking, moaning softly. 

Alan breaks away from him, keeps pressing rough kisses to his mouth, wet noises as he fucks into him, Edgar’s cock rubbing slick against his stomach. The pressure of his mouth keeps the wounds open, blood still spilling into Edgar’s as he rocks upward. “Is that what you wanted?” Alan husks into his mouth, _blood_ unspoken but the change in hunger hanging over them too. Edgar is close, _close_ , and when Alan wraps a hand around him, he’s coming immediately, whimpering under him. Alan lasts two more thrusts, then he’s groaning against his brother’s mouth, body going rigid and then lax. 

When he can move, he pulls back and looks Edgar, still panting, in the face. His clean hand smooths the hair back from his face, and he pours as much wonder and adoration as he can into it without opening up his mind. Edgar lets out a huff of noise, mouth pulling back into what looks like a grimace with him still struggling to breathe. 

A half smile tugs at Alan’s mouth, and he ducks his head to press a dry kiss to Edgar’s jaw before he pulls out and stands on wobbly legs to head for the camper’s bathroom.   
  
  
  



	13. Alan/Edgar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that part comes so easily that he has to wonder if it’s the truth at all.
> 
> A confession, part II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after Chapter 8, when David drops the Sam bomb.

 

 

“He’s the head vampire!” Edgar shouts, and it’s surprisingly steady for someone whose face is still blotchy and wet, someone whose world was just upended, because go figure, right? 

Alan bristles anyway, because it’s true and the truth rankles more often than not. Sometimes it feels like a reflex; other times it just feels like his life. 

“It’s not like you can take it back _now_ ,” Alan says softly, and it doesn’t matter, because Edgar shakes with the words anyway. It would have been uncharacteristic the million years ago that it’s been, but what wouldn’t have been? 

“Why didn’t you then?” He asks so low that Alan can barely hear it, still afraid to hear the words, but awake this time and trying to face them head on. 

“It didn’t last long,” talking about being half, talking about being _salvageable_. Alan’s trying to stem this, trying to bottleneck this into something that _isn’t_ his shitty choices. 

“So you’ve said.” And of course, Edgar sees through it, sees that it’s not an answer. “Why didn’t you?” 

And how do you put that into words? That you _knew_ , somewhere deep down, somehow, but God, how could it be true? That you went into that last fight and _they_ knew, they whisked you away into something and you _left_ because it’s all gone to shit and you’re afraid you’d be a liability, afraid you’ll switch sides and bring the whole thing down? How do you explain what that looks like from the outside? 

“I never meant...” he starts, and here we go, Edgar thinks, these never ending placating apologies, like his brother doesn’t understand how to hold a fucking conversation. 

“That’s not what I asked, Alan,” and it’s a surprise for the second time how level Edgar’s voice sounds in this moment. His face is still blotchy, but drying. Eyes a little puffy, but he thinks (proudly) that Edgar still has fight in him, still has the doggedness that made the three of them such a force at one time. (That feeling shifts when he remembers it’s aimed at him.) 

The breath Alan releases isn’t quite a sigh, but it’s long suffering all the same. It’s a simple question, but the answer was complicated to begin with, and time isn’t kind to that sort of thing. It unravels it, spools of tangled thread, and where do you ever begin to find the beginning? 

“Your first kill,” he says finally. Simply. Like it makes any kind of sense. Edgar just shakes his head. Alan starts again: “You turn when you make your first kill.” 

And finally, finally, it clicks into place. He can see it in Edgar’s face, dawning comprehension. It’s a sick joke, really. That David’s death would have bought his freedom, but only at the hands of someone else. 

And then: “You could have came to us,” Edgar says. His voice comes a little louder, his face drawn with rising anger. 

“You and Sam?” Alan lets out a noise that might be a laugh, if there was any merriment in it. Edgar’s cheeks flush hot at regardless; he’s still angry. 

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” that they didn’t speak again after that, he means. That Sam lost someone that night too. That it took Edgar years to be some semblance of himself again. 

Alan tries to take pity on him. “No one knew where he was, Edgar. He went to ground all those years. Nobody was going to find him unless he wanted it, and there wasn’t _time_.” 

Now that he’s found the thread, it comes easier. “It was safer to stay gone,” he says. 

(And that part comes so easily that he has to wonder if it’s the truth at all. He can hear David’s voice in his head, his laugh, from years later: _Do you think your demons will die with me?_ )   
  
  
  



	14. Alan/Maria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Alan’s bi. Just a background piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t even know what’s going on with this, but I started it and feel obligated.

 

 

At Widow Johnson’s, Alan struggles. He fights against them, but there are so many clawing at his clothes and exposed skin, kitten scratches like they’re toying with him, and he spins trying to keep eyes on all of them, but the women are quick and ethereal. They pluck the weapons from his belt with quiet efficiency. He loses his footing on the smooth wood of one of Sam’s carved stakes and stumbles onto a water pistol full of holy water, crunching it under his other foot, and he’s struck again by just how unprepared they were for this. 

Their fingernails snag along the thin skin of his wrist as their grips shift, cool little crescents with a soft, almost sensual drag. They tighten and he loses his grip on the stake in his hand, and somewhere with it he loses the ability to think straight. 

They whisper around him, and the noise of their quiet murmurs manages to drown out the sound of his brother and Sam somewhere in the background fighting for their lives and the sounds of the other vampires around them. One of the women, he doesn’t even see which, reaches a hand out that brushes against his cheek. Her wrists are wet, and he realizes, oh, that’s the smell that’s slowed his movements down to a crawl. That’s that fuzzyheaded feeling. 

Her skin is sticky, wet, and luscious against his mouth, and, oh, it’d be a crime _not_ to, some part of him says, but still he fights, sputters against her skin, blows tacky bubbles in all that sinful wetness and wrenches away, because, goddamn, some of his blood is moving south and he can’t fucking do this, he’s almost lucid, and he can’t let this be the way this ends, here with Edgar and Sam and him getting hot under the collar about some broad’s bloody wrist in his face. He strains his body and arms forward, but those hands are still intertwined around him, they pull him back and they wrench him back by the hair, and her wrist is back, and it’s still just as wet and luscious. 

He fights. Of course he does. He’s still _human,_ there’s still the part of him that believes in truth, justice, and the American way, but he’s also weary down to his bones and there’s only so much he can take. 

It bubbles up his nose with his ragged breaths, spills into his mouth when he gasps for air, and her blood is just as sticky and sweet as it smells. He drinks greedily, half hard in his fatigues because the smell is perfumey and heady. 

And when he hears his brother shout his name and feel the sudden tension in the gaggle around him, he looks up and locks eyes with him and he remembers, so fucking inappropriately, the taste of his brother’s skin, and her wrist is suddenly gone and their hands are slipping away from him and he’s crumbling boneless to the floor and his brother is rushing toward him and—he’s filled with sudden mortifying shame. 

For being caught this way, for the way he’s acutely aware of the fact that he’s half hard from some vampire bitch’s blood the second Edgar’s hands collide with him, for having his goddamn secret taken from him like this before he figured out how to go about fixing it, for the futility of everything. 

For not being given a fucking choice in this. 

For his brother now clinging him, pushing his weight on to him and so near tears as he pleads that they’ll fix it, and oh, 

Edgar means _now_ , now he’s a half vampire, this just happened, there’s a chance, and, shit, that secret isn’t even out and it doesn’t even matter and 

All he can look at is the warm skin of Edgar’s neck, it’s pink with blood and 

There’s an insistent throb below his belt, and he realizes it’s his pulse, he’s more than goddamn half hard and 

There’s blood still sticky around his mouth like honey, still the taste on his lips, and 

He can see the veins honeycombed beneath Edgar’s skin and 

He leans forward, toward him, and 

“Edgar! A little help here, buddy?” Sam yells, and there’s the _thwack_ of his bowstring and the wet _sink_ of an arrow, and 

Edgar’s telling him to say there, he’ll be right back, like they’re not going to swarm him and kill him the second he steps away, because, well, they’re _not_ because he’s one of _them_ , he’s not a hunter anymore, is he? And then Edgar’s gone, he’s good and he’s smart and he’ll be okay, but Alan? 

Well. 

That’s where his brain gets a little fuzzy, because he splits right on out of there. 

— 

In the end, Sam and Edgar both lose and they’re lucky because they’re given the grace to leave with their lives. They don’t find Alan outside just past the tree line, hiding from both them and the vampires inside the house. 

They’re chased out all the way down Widow Johnson’s long winding driveway, the threat of death still too real, and the pounding music from inside still at a deafening volume. 

Alan hopes they’re too smart to come back for him. 

He won’t be here. 

Still yet, his heart pounds erratically in something like fear. 

— 

“Hey,” someone says and she’s wandered out here because it’s an undead party, even after the hunt, and there are still people shuffling both out and back in. He stumbles gracelessly back to his feet and into sight, ready for an attack, but it’s just her. Her next words take him by surprise. “You had already drank, hadn’t you?” 

She’s not the same woman—girl—that he fed from, he doesn’t think and doesn’t see any wounds on her arms, but he thinks she was one of the women surrounding him. 

He’s acutely aware that he doesn’t feel any fear, but 

Her dark skin glows a golden brown, and her silver dress barely covers her, and her hair is pinned in dreads, and 

She’s gorgeous and he doesn’t know if it’s gloss or blood that’s so red and shiny on her lips but he wants to lick it, sticky and sweet, off of her mouth and 

She tucks her hair behind her shoulder, and bends a leg up to her to adjust a strap on her shining silver heel. He tries to keep his eyes on her face. 

“I could smell it,” she says. “Halves always smell like their sire.” 

And he doesn’t know who that is, not yet, not here with his life flayed open and nowhere to go but 

“Is that why it was me? Was it one of you to begin with?” He’s still so goddamn weary that it’s hard to feel anything at all, but his voice gets a little louder anyway because he needs to know _why_. 

“Oh, no,” she says lightly. She’s pulled a cigarette from somewhere, she lights it and the lighter disappears to somewhere else. “No, it wasn’t one of us. But who knows? Maybe they just thought you were a looker,” she says, and gives him a considering once-over from the corner of her eye. 

He’s still got dried blood cracked on his face, it’s stained messily on his clothes. He runs a hand through his hair and laughs, though it’s cruel and mirthless. She assesses him openly at the sound, and her voice takes on a different weight as she tries to level with him. 

“They don’t smell as well as I do, so they don’t know this, but your sire? You smell like ozone, like electricity. I don’t recognize the smell, but he’s big. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a mistake.” 

“It _was_ a mistake,” he says, and there’s tension now in his shoulders, reality trying desperately to set back in, but it doesn’t quite make it past that into his brain. He doesn’t notice her slip on the pronoun. The thump of the bass from inside rattles it out of him. 

“Alan, right?” she asks and he nods, almost imperceptibly, but she didn’t really have to ask. She had already heard his name. “I’m Maria,” she says and sticks out a hand for him to shake. Reluctantly, he takes it, swayed a little by the humanity of the gesture. 

There’s still a cigarette burning to ash in her other hand. 

Offhandedly, she says: “I have a place, you know. I take it you’re not going home.” 

Maybe it shouldn’t come as even a small shock when he realizes that no, he isn’t going home. Not like this. 

— 

He doesn’t sleep with her, not that night. He wakes up and he finds himself drawn to the boardwalk, night after night. Sometimes he watches the comic book shop for hours at a time, the doors locked shut and the lights off. Sometimes he sees Edgar’s shadow through the upstairs window of their room. Sometimes he thinks about trying to fix this, but oh, he’s already fucking ruined it. 

There’s a hollowness in him coupled with the monster that’s now a part of him, and it turns him into a different version of himself. It makes him at turns unbelievably angry and so morose he can’t function. 

He finds himself under the pier, grateful for the solitude of it even when the noise and the rides continued on overhead. 

That’s when David finds him. 

And that’s when he knows shit’s really went to pot, because it doesn’t take an astrophysicist to know that David is the head vampire. 

They wouldn’t stand a chance against him, even if Alan wasn’t alone. 

— 

When he feeds for the first time, it’s not with David. It’s with Maria. 

He’s feels full for the first time in weeks, and they’re giddy with the adrenaline of the hunt. Maria laughs and bumps into him, and he thinks once again that she’s beautiful, covered in blood with sand stuck to it on her forearms. 

When she throws her arms around his neck, he lets her. 

This time he does go to bed with her. 

The next night, he leaves her with her life and never sees her again. 

It’s for the best, because if he recognized her from Max’s video store, realized that she lied to him and had a history with David and that he was the one that pulled those strings, well. 

It might not have ended so well for her. 

Years later, there are more women, because he _likes_ women. Likes their soft skin and intricate folds. 

They’re easy and they’re effortless and they move so beautifully, they’re slick and lovely and their blood is just as sweet as the candied smell of their skin. 

It’s ironic, of course, because after her, he leaves them drained every time. 

Because there’s a certain number of corpses you have to step over to really get anywhere, and he’s got a brother to keep safe.  
  
  
  



	15. Alan/Edgar, Alan/Maria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And he thinks this means that he can fight it, still, that maybe there’s a chance, and he deludes himself into believing it for the hours left before dawn. Thinks it even as the boardwalk lies empty and dark and he sits, still half crazy with hunger, empty eyes watching the shop._
> 
> _He thinks it until he dreams that night of ripping that man’s jugular out with his teeth, dreams of the gurgle of his last breath._
> 
> -
> 
> Alan’s first week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized I _demolished_ my own timeline the last chapter and wrote Maria as not the total goddess that she is and oh my god, why did I do this.
> 
> I’m attempting to fix it.
> 
> This is Part I. There’s a bonus in here in (parenthesis) that will have a short follow up later on because I’m playing around and it doesn’t fit with these bits, but the next chapter will be immediately following this one as soon as I get it finished.
> 
> I don’t even know what I’m doing at this point.

 

 

Maria lives in a small house in a nice part of town. It’s freshly painted two-toned eggshell—cream and robin—and lined with hedges and picturesque in a way that’s both surreal and foreboding. 

There’s more than a dozen blood suckers crammed inside when Maria leads him there in the early hours of the morning, music plays from the speakers, and nearly half of the occupants are still there when the sun rises. 

There’s a bedroom there that’s unoccupied, that’s nothing like home and never will be, but it has an actual bed and the windows are sealed off and for that some part of him is grateful. 

He doesn’t have to ask if there are others like him, that haven’t fully turned, because when the sun rises there’s an exodus toward the attic rafters, and he figures that’s all he really needs to know. 

\- 

\- 

\- 

The smell of patchouli incense almost drowns out the smell of blood. 

Almost. 

The smell of fresh blood comes in like clockwork. Whenever someone returns from a hunt, he can smell the kill on them, it travels (too quickly) to every corner of the house. 

Like clockwork, there’s an empty pit where his stomach should be and sweat on his brow. 

He gets used to way his teeth ache. 

\- 

\- 

\- 

Maria offers her arm to him. 

She opens the skin of her forearm with a fingernail, holds it out to him, and the scent is heady, soft and perfumey, but Alan grits his sharpened teeth and refuses. 

His fingers rip through the edge of the mattress, he grips it that tightly, but the hunger drips out of him with every bead of sweat on his skin, dissipates with every chatter of his teeth, and only an eternity later, when his head is splitting with the comedown and he’s aching and shaking, she finally leaves him in peace. 

\- 

\- 

\- 

Alan’s not sure how he gets there because things are a blur sometimes, but there’s a hunt, a big one. Not Surf Nazis, not anymore, but something like the sort. Softer. Wannabes. 

And they’re _young_ , some of them younger than him. There are boys in the crowd with nothing more than fuzz on their jaws, girls that might still be in high school (and it’s funny that he thinks that—a dropout like him, who’s been out of school for years, thinking in terms of who’s graduated yet). 

There’s maybe a dozen on either side but the odds don’t come down to numbers, really. Maria’s group doesn’t even sneak up; they move with purpose across the sand, like they’re here to join the party and the surfers are none the wiser. 

Alan can almost believe that’s what’s happening himself. He can feel the charge coming off the others, their violent energy and the uncomfortable way he itches under his own skin. 

He can’t do this. His teeth feel ready to shift, but his feet are heavy and dragging. He falls behind, still so _hungry_ but nauseous and sweating. 

Alan is five seconds from turning around, from fleeing here as fast as he can when it happens. When the vampires move in, they move so quickly that Alan’s left rooted to the same spot he stopped and the first one screams just before the arterial spray mists across Alan’s face even from the distance. 

The empty pit of his stomach screeches, the hunger rearing its ugly head, and his teeth drop, but still he can’t move. They’re civilians and they don’t stand a chance. Only one manages to run, too terrified to scream, and Maria chases while the others eat. 

The noises are disgusting and wet, and Alan wipes at his mouth, tries to block it out, focuses on the pounding of his head but the rhythm of it courses through his body, leaves him _wanting_. There’s blood in his mouth now, smeared with his hand, and the others— 

The others are finished, there’s nothing left until Maria drags the last surfer back, hand muffling his pleading sobs. He’s older than the rest but still so young and he locks his eyes on Alan, pleading without a voice, and Alan can’t no matter how badly he’s shaking. 

He can’t do this. 

Maria looks at him and he shakes his head wordlessly. A bead of sweat drips off the lank ends of his hair, when he mouths _no_ to her, his teeth are so sensitive, they throb from the soft caress of his lips against them. Still he won’t. 

But Maria’s gaze is steel and she nicks the side of the man’s neck with her thumbnail. The man struggles, hands trying to cover the barely trickling wound. Alan’s world narrows down the pulse of blood over the man’s scrabbling fingers, his muffled pleas renewed. 

She cuts him for real when Alan wavers but doesn’t move. A sheet of blood runs down his neck and chest, stains his bottoms, and it’s not enough to kill him yet but he’s growing weaker, and Alan is stumbling forward like it’s fresh water for the first time in ages, but somehow he stops himself a few feet away. 

And oh, he’s sweating, he’s drenched, and the shaking has him quivering all over, but he can’t, he fucking can’t, and he tells her, voice shaking so badly with need that he’s near crying with it: “ _I can’t._ ” 

The others are gone now, it’s just the two—three—of them, and Maria’s face finally softens. “He’s already gone, Alan,” she says, pushing two fingers under his jaw to be sure. It isn’t until then that Alan notices the man had gone limp. 

The man’s blood is still draining out of him, still calling to him, making his mouth water, but Alan doesn’t take it, can’t bring himself to even eat leftovers. 

And he thinks this means that he can fight it, still, that maybe there’s a chance, and he deludes himself into believing it for the hours left before dawn. Thinks it even as the boardwalk lies empty and dark and he sits, still half crazy with hunger, empty eyes watching the shop. 

He thinks it until he dreams that night of ripping that man’s jugular out with his teeth, dreams of the gurgle of his last breath. 

\- 

\- 

\- 

(The part of Alan that isn’t ticking like a bomb is lucid and methodical. It’s this part of him that digs through the dead’s pockets, looking for money, jewelry, or anything useful. It won’t accumulate as quickly soon, because he won’t be with a pack for much longer, but with a pack this size, for now it’s enough.) 

\- 

\- 

\- 

He’s tired to his bones and he’s _hungry_ and he _aches_ and there’s no sleep for him, there’s no rest for the wicked, because this is the longest he’s ever been in the world without his brother, and he knows he’ll never be able to go home again. 

He’s pulled to the boardwalk again and again, and sometimes it’s easier than Maria’s, easier than the revolving door of blood suckers coming in with that _smell_ on them... 

And sometimes it’s worse, because sometimes the carnival music crashes in a way that sets his head spinning and pounding and suddenly he’s hyperaware of the bodies around him, of the meat of them, what’s under the surface of their skin, and he has to get out, pale and sweating, but his feet pull him toward the comic book store and he doesn’t know if he’s relieved or crushed when the windows are dark and the steel shutters are over the glass. 

It’s this night that David appears under the pier, materializing like a bad omen, like an albatross around Alan’s neck. Alan is too exhausted then to be surprised—too upended to be anything more than hollow. 

When David asks if he fed, when his brother flashes through his head and Alan thinks how _easy_ it would be, the key is still in his pocket and there’s no image in his head, there’s nothing beyond that, just how easy it would be to climb those stairs, and already his mouth waters, and— 

He throws his keys into the ocean. 

\- 

\- 

\- 

The second time Maria offers her arm, Alan tries to hold steadfast. This time he doesn’t grip the mattress; he clenches his fists, and it’s stupid, of course, because he’s stronger now than he was before, and his fingernails lengthen and gouge into his skin. The pain is interesting and beautiful, and the scent of his own blood mixes with Maria’s, and it’s not sure if it’s that or the hunger getting worse that makes this harder. 

His mind feels shrunken, like it’s rattling around in his head even though it feels stuffed with cotton. The sweating starts up again, the shaking. His mouth is dry, and he doesn’t know if this is more like starvation or withdrawal. 

He forces his hands to unclench. His blood drips on the edges of the mattress. She’ll have to burn it when he’s gone, he thinks. 

“You have to feed, Alan,” she says. A few drops of blood fall to the floor when she steps closer. He watches it, rapt, and wonders, drunkenly, how she plans on getting that out of the carpet. 

Alan drags his gaze to her, tries to look stronger than he feels even though the shaking, the bruised half lidded eyes, give it away. He unglues his tongue from the roof of his mouth and croaks out, “Who’s the head vampire?” 

“Alan,” she starts, like she can head this off, like a scolding is going to convince him. 

“I won’t,” he rattles out, looking at the wound on her, then back to her eyes. His own bloody hands drag against the frayed scraps of the mattress’s edge. “Not until I know who.” 

And he’s strong, she thinks. The metal chain of his dog tags glints sickly against his skin. 

She’s closer now and the smell of her makes him shudder. The fabric catches against the scratches in his palms, tiny bursts of pain that feel exquisite. He doesn’t respond to her, focuses instead on breathing. 

Her hand reaches out and brushes the limb strands of his hair back. He tries not to flinch, more afraid of flinching toward her than away from her. His hands still. Her other bleeding arm is right there and the fight is fast draining out of him. 

“He was killed years ago,” she says, trying to make eye contact with him. “You were there,” she nearly whispers. 

But he doesn’t catch it, can’t begin to fathom what it means that she knows that, because she scratches her nails against his scalp and it feels _good_ for once, this burning under his skin. His head lolls, and he almost gives in, nearly turns his face into the soft bleeding skin of her arm. She’s beautiful, he thinks, tall, dark and curved. The sweet smell of her and— 

She says again, “You have to feed,” and he knows that her blood will be the sweetest of water, but he’s able to wrench his head away. 

This time she lets him. It’ll only make it easier in the end. 

Later, when he has enough brain function to ask again, when he’s still empty, still _hungry_ , but her blood is all inside of her skin where he can mostly ignore it, she holds his gaze and tells him, simply, that there are rumors but she can’t say for sure. 

Alan suspects she means she _won’t_. 

\- 

\- 

\- 

After a few nights at the boardwalk or the pier, he realizes he has a sense of when Edgar gets in of the mornings. A sense of where he’s been or when he leaves. A mental tether that leads to him. 

At first, it’s an aching sort of comfort, the tug in his brain like a homing beacon, but soon it’s a distraction, a temptation he starts to fear. 

Soon that awareness creeps in when Alan isn’t on the boardwalk, and sometimes it makes him sweat the same as the smell of blood. Sometimes he’s on his feet and moving with that pull, halfway there before he comes back to himself, aching in ways he can’t even explain. 

He starts having dreams, waking from fitful sleep with his blood pounding, and there’s sometimes more of him that throbs than just the blood in his veins, and— 

Sometimes it’s like his brain goes offline and every time he comes to, he’s checking his hands for blood. 

He doesn’t ask Maria if it goes away, this monster inside of him that pines for his brother’s blood the same way it pines for her’s when she’s near. 

He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t want to know. 

He thinks she might be right. 

He has to feed.   
  
  
  



	16. Alan/Maria + Edgar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two nights after, six nights in, Alan breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maria’s chapters are complete now.

 

 

Two nights after, six nights in, Alan breaks. 

He doesn’t recognize the music that plays, only that it’s pretentious and bass-heavy with a beat that pounds like a pulse, an ebb and tide like the ocean, like the wash of blood in the womb. 

His own pulse echos it, skin feverish. His gums throb in time with the rest of him. 

The smell of blood permeates the house, and he shouldn’t be here because this isn’t his scene and he needs _out_ , but his feet never seem to come online. 

There’s blood on the newcomers, on the regulars, on the people that actually seem to live here. 

There’s blood under the skin of everyone here. 

There’s old blood. There’s the smell absorbed into every board and fabric of this house. There’s fresh blood, just came through the door, and god, there’s a spot on the hem of his shirt that isn’t even _dry_ , and— 

His skin flushes, crawls, itches, _burns_. Smell of cloves, sweet spice, it hangs in the air, takes it over. Maria catches his eye from across the room. The bass drops, skitters across his overheated skin, and— 

She’s at his side, pressed up against his arm, and he can smell _her_ blood under her skin, and he isn’t sweating, not yet, but any minute now because she’s in his head, she’s under his skin, her blood calls and beckons and she knows because she has her tricks just like they all do and— 

“We’re leaving for a hunt in five,” she says, and her hand touches his arm, leaves goosebumps in its wake, and the smell, god, the smell of her blood, it’s clogging his nostrils, he can’t breathe for it. 

He can’t, still. 

And yet he knows that he will. 

\- 

When the house clears out for the hunt, most of the vampires are there one moment, on the ground and ordinary, and disappearing into the night sky the next. 

Alan hasn’t learned yet what he’s capable of—or rather, he thinks he has learned what he’s capable of, he sees it in his head, in dreams that clot in his brain, but he hasn’t learned the endless capabilities of his body. He’s woken both from sleep and from the foggy depths of hunger to find himself floating, but controlled flight is still beyond what his conscious mind can do. 

Not that he’s particularly conscious now. 

Time passes in a blur, or more accurately in flashes that follow the pounding of his heart, the pounding of his head. 

Maria has a car. He thinks that’s how the two of them get further inland to the edges of town, because there’s dash lights and the whip of trees in his peripheral, but they still have to walk out into the hills. 

The others fade in with them along the way and Alan can smell the campfire long before they get there. His brain translates it wrong, takes the smell of the campers and the smoke and turns it into _food_. The warm smell of their blood comes into focus before they even crest the hill. 

The scene turns to chaos before Alan even fully sees what’s ahead of them. 

It’s out of line to even call it a hunt; it’s slaughter. (And yet, it’s familiar, it _is_ still a hunt.) 

His fangs drop immediately at the first spray of blood. 

Someone screams. 

Someone else howls. 

He’s sweating and nauseous with hunger. The shakes start. 

And in the corner of his vision, there’s a blur of long, mousy hair as a man runs for it and— 

Alan can’t— 

The man runs, scrambles up the hill, and— 

Alan only wants to stop him, only wants to— 

His skin is warm under Alan’s hands— 

It’s not— 

His pulse beats against Alan’s fingertips— 

His long hair is in Alan’s hand and— 

Alan’s brain is entirely offline when his teeth find flesh. 

It’s offline when the man goes limp. 

When he’s nothing more than a corpse, Alan has to brush the hair back from the man’s face, just to make sure it isn’t his brother. 

\- 

What he’s least prepared for is the euphoria, the giddiness of the ever-present hunger subsiding. Nourishment bubbling in his stomach, pumping like fuel through his veins. 

Maria bumps into him and giggles. She’s drenched in red, like someone dumped a bucket of it over her. Different blood. Different smell. 

And he’s no longer hungry, no longer slowly starving away into nothing, but Maria _is_ beautiful and in this moment, it’s not her blood that he wants. 

She grins up at him, dizzy and infectious and wondrous, and— 

The ragged remains of a camper’s tent will do. 

\- 

He’ll never see her again. 

When she’s gone, he robs the corpses, not for the last time but for the last time like this, with so many of them from a group hunt. 

_That bad, huh? If you hurry the leftovers might be still good,_ one of Maria’s pack had said to him, smirking, when he asked where their kill was days before. He didn’t eat the leftovers, but he took the money from their pockets, the silver and gold from their wrists and necks. 

He returns to the house only to grab the valuables from under the mattress. The jewelry he pawns without any fear. 

It’s Santa Carla, after all. 

\- 

Edgar thinks at first it’s hush money, bribe money, get out of town and never come back money. He bites down on his tongue and slams the door so hard the entire truck wobbles. He curses and scrubs his hands over his face, through his hair, and tries to calm down. 

When he opens the door again, he grabs the stack of bills like he’s afraid it’ll bite him, but it snags on something, jolts enough to catch his eye, and there against the back of the seat where it must have slid off is a thin strip of leather, a bracelet he recognizes immediately as Alan’s. 

Then his skin crawl crawl _crawls_ , because his brother wanted to _eat_ him. It’s nothing but a slightly hysterical melodrama, then, the part of him that says maybe he should have, that death or something akin to it would have been better than going home that night without Alan. 

The years after? Not so much. That part of him lingers and festers. It becomes an open wound, rotting him away, and half the time he’s so delirious with it that the oblivion on the other side is all he longs for. 

(Edgar doesn’t call Sam. Sam won’t reach out to him again for years, and by then, he’s no longer taking personal calls. By then, he’s too hollowed out with grief, too stretched thin by the hunt to even consider mending that rift.) 

But he takes the bills, the blood money, the severance pay, the life insurance settlement, whatever the fuck it’s supposed to be, and he buys someone’s secondhand camper because he’s not stupid. Maybe he was before, but he’s not now. 

The shop isn’t home anymore, and he has a feeling that he’ll be doing a lot of moving from here on out. 

  
  
  
  



	17. Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And, well. Some things don’t stay buried for long._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Short character study.

 

 

It’s the distance that turns him into what he becomes. The darkness, maybe, and the way it never fucking ends. It stretches out like catacombs, like a glorified tomb he can’t escape—but Alan figures that’s more literal than symbolic, and there’s no point in dwelling on the literal. 

When he feeds for the first time, not leftovers, which he didn’t eat, and not another vampire’s blood, which had been forced on him, but a meal, a human, a _life_ —destroyed, and that’s symbolic if anything ever was—, he hopes it’ll make this pull and tug easier, that it’ll make Edgar safe. The cash he gathers and the things he pawns, those are just insurance. Those are a head start. 

And for a while, he thinks those measures have worked. 

For a while, years even, he can feel where his brother is just as much as he knows it, hears it whispered in certain higher circles that specifically hunt hunters, ones he obliterates more often than not, but never once truly follows. He never once makes contact. 

And somehow some part of him feels noble for it, like for one stupid moment in his entire life, which now he figures is more his _death_ , he’s done something right. 

He’s wrong, of course. 

That distance creates a void in him that stretches for miles, that runs on and on like the cave system under Santa Carla. Casts a shadow black as pitch over what’s left of him. 

And, well. Some things don’t stay buried for long.  
  
  
  



	18. Sam & Michael (slash if you squint) + David

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael comes back for Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m rusty, please don’t judge me too harshly. No beta. Just wanted to churn something out since it had been a few months.
> 
> Trying to get back into the swing of this. Had a few setbacks recently, but things are rolling now.

 

 

It’s just after dark when Michael pulls up to the cabin. The wind is balmy, it’s midsummer in California after all, and he knows the windows are open because his headlights caught the billow of curtains on the way up the hill. There’s a light coming from his old bedroom window. It’s open, and the curtains flutter there as well, and it doesn’t sit quite right with him though he doesn’t put it together immediately. 

He hopes desperately that Sam’s here, that Sam’s alright, and all of this is just silliness on his part, but the musical _ting_ of a wind chime brings him up short. He thinks of _that_ night, of the glare of ghostly headlights, the fight, David and his boys, and—God, does this ever end? His heartbeat doesn’t quicken, some small wonder, but it thunders in his ears all the same. The hair on his neck rises, sweat beads. He swears he can hear whispers on the wind. 

“Sammy?” Michael calls out even though he doesn’t expect an answer. The back door is unlocked, and he lets himself in without knocking. “Sammy?” He tries again, lower this time. 

The house is the same as it was the last time he was there. There’s a layer of dust over the furniture, the floors, that he knows goes back further than the last time he spoke to Sam. It’s obvious Sam hasn’t had much use for the downstairs rooms in a while, but there’s no sign of trouble and that, at least, is a blessing. 

The stairs creak under Michael’s weight, and now his heartbeat picks up. There’s a soft light coming from under his old bedroom door. Michael squeezes his eyes shut and prays to whatever deities are listening—please let Sammy be okay, please let there be a note or _something_ , just please don’t let this go south—and opens the door. 

For a moment all he can do is stand there. 

He realizes now that the window was closed when Sam was here, plastered over with foil to keep the sun out, and now a breeze comes through the open window, and Sam’s not here, but the bed is made and the room is lit up by warm lamplight and there’s no dust here. 

“Sam?” Michael whispers, now just to hear himself. His fingers reach out and skim the bedposts. He scans the end tables, the desk, the floor around them, for some kind of note, some sort of inkling where Sam could be, then his eyes land on it, on the dresser. 

Dull gold and red jewels. 

A bottle of blood. 

He swears he can hear his name whispered on the breeze. 

\- 

\- 

\- 

Sam knows when Michael leaves the cabin, when Michael is on his way here, to the hotel. A strange sort of blood-based echolocation that he’s sure now that David shares—he’s been pacing the floor since Michael tripped Sam’s radar. 

Sam can feel the rumble of his bike at the edge of the cliff, hear the thud of his sneakers on the rickety steps leading to the hotel. Feel the beat of his heart, and oh god, he wasn’t prepared for that, for the humanity of him and the desperation pouring out of him, the fear and the determination that’s masking it, and it makes his gums itch, his blood runs a little hotter, and—oh, that’s from _David_ , emotions seeping out into the room where Sam’s picking up on them. 

“Sammy?” Michael’s questioning voice carries in before he himself crashes into the foyer. 

“Michael!” Sam beams, everything momentarily forgotten at the disheveled sight of his brother, and rushes to meet him. 

“Oh, thank God, I didn’t know what happened to you, Sammy, didn’t know where you were, if you were alive, and I saw the wine bottle and—“ he’s blubbering, god fucking bless him, and his grip on Sam’s arms is tight. Sam reaches for his face, strokes his hair. He knows where Michael’s going with this anyway; he thought David had hurt Sam to get back at him. 

“It’s okay, Mike. I’m fine,” Sam assures him. Michael grabs his hand, presses his cheek against it. He whispers small prayers of gratitude and Sam laughs. Sam’s grown now, and Michael midway through his twenties, but some things never change. 

“What are you _doing_ here? Why aren’t you home?” Michael asks. 

Sam opens his mouth to answer the same moment David bleeds out of the shadows. Michael stiffens, his grip on Sam’s arm tightens, even before he sees him. 

And Sam can feel it, the moment Michael knows he’s in the room. Killing Max had broke the curse, but David’s blood was in there, too. And that blood sings through Michael’s veins, sensing him after so long away. 

Michael’s still human, but the response that Sam feels is amazing. Misguided, sure, because David is _David_ even after all these years, but the way his heart beats faster, ( _did his eyes just dilate?_ , Sam can’t tell for sure, but surely they weren’t like this a moment ago), Sam can _smell_ the heat radiating off of him, the sweat, and oh god, his blood smells like nectar, and... 

David’s mind had oozed into the room again, and they’re really going to have to have a talk about that. David smirks at him, mouths the word _sorry_ , and Sam knows, standing there with his brother still touching him and his dick half-interested at the smell of him, that David’s fucking with him. 

“Hunters,” David says, and now Michael whips around, sees him for the first time, and Jesus, he’s changed but Michael knows the moment he lays eyes on him just exactly who David is. 

“If you had hurt him, if you _do_ hurt him,” Michael starts, and there he is, there’s the spitfire teenager David had met nearly a decade ago, and really, David’s blood in his veins slowed the time down. Michael might be twenty six, but he’s barely older than the day he drank. Outwardly he might still be Sam’s age, and he’s still so achingly beautiful. 

“Relax, Mike,” Sam says, reaching now for Michael and Michael swats his hand away. This is between him and David now. And David, god, the bastard, is smiling, standing so innocent except for that grin. 

“Relax, Michael,” David echos. “Sam was about to have a run in with some hunters. He needed to lay low for a while.” David looks at Sam, and it looks like a plea but Sam knows it’s a challenge. 

And god help him, Sam doesn’t know if it’s because of the chemistry in the room or because it’s the truth, he says, “He saved my life, Mike.” 

”Sammy,” Michael warns, turning back to him, Sam’s name a lifeline he’s holding desperately onto. 

”It’s true,” he says, and this time Michael lets him touch, lets it ground him. His shoulders fall, the breath he was holding leeching out of him. He runs a hand over his face and groans. 

“What now?” Michael asks, looking at David too. 

”I—“ Sam flounders. He doesn’t know. He’s never asked. David has kept him here for weeks, and he’s never thought to ask where David was before this, never thought to ask when this fragile truce would end, or where to go after. 

Michael looks at David. 

”He stays with me,” David says, “until the hunters are gone or forget about him.” 

“They know about this hotel, David. Are you planning on getting him killed?” Michael asks, the fight back in him. 

“They _knew_ about this hotel. It’s been eight years, Michael. Those hunters have moved on. No one’s been down here in years.” 

“How can you be so sure?” 

“Michael,” and David loads it down with the best fake hurt he can muster. “You really think I wouldn’t know? I know everything that happens in Santa Carla.” 

“Max...” Michael starts, and oh, for all he comes off as air headed, Michael is quicker than he looks. “You’re the head vampire now,” he says, and it floors him just as much as learning David was alive. And he asks the same question as Alan: “Why didn’t we find you?” 

David laughs. “Can’t find a ghost, Michael. As far as anyone knows, I died in that house,” and his face darkens a fraction at the mention of it, but it’s gone as fast as Michael can blink. “There’s someone new that fills that role.” 

Sam’s eyes light up with understanding, and he whispers, _Alan._

“ _Alan_? Alan Frog? The hunter?” Michael asks, incredulous. 

“He turned, Mike. There was something wrong with him, anyway, there always was, but he’s one of them now. _Us_ , I guess,” he says, sparing a glance at David. Sam doesn’t know what to say beyond that. Alan’s an enigma, he always has been. There’s a darkness in him, a determination, a steel of sorts... Sam nods at David, a small concession. David picked well when he turned Alan—he birthed a type of monster. David offers a small smile back at him. 

“Sam’s safe here, Michael,” David says. 

”Give me a minute with my brother,” Michael finally says, his voice gruff and brooking no argument. 

And David vanishes out the hotel entrance like he was never there at all. 

Michael’s not dumb enough to think this old hotel doesn’t have ears and eyes, but he needs a moment with Sam, a moment with a clear head. 

“Sam, what were you _thinking_?” 

“I didn’t ask to get chased by hunters, Mike.” 

“Going with David, though?” 

“I didn’t come to him, bro. He came to me,” Sam says and, god, like that makes it any better. 

“Either way, Sammy! After everything!” 

“Maybe I was wrong, Mike. When I said he hadn’t changed. Maybe in some way he has.” 

And Michael has to look away, let the derision show to the fountain or the drapes, anything that’s not his brother. “Sammy,” he says. 

“No, listen, Mike. Do you know what I did in that house, day after day? Look at me, Mike,” Sam says, and Michael finally does, looks him right in the eye and he’s desperate now, Sam can see it. Sam reaches out, lets his fingers touch skin again, lets it ground him. 

“I know, Sammy,” Michael says, and his voice croaks, just a little, on the way out. His hands take Sam’s, a silent plea not to do this, don’t even go there, please... 

“I know you don’t want to hear it, Mike, but I waited to die. Every single day, before I turned, even after, I was just waiting on it to be _over_.” 

“God, Sammy, I—“ 

“Don’t,” Sam says. “Don’t make this about you, Mike. I ran you off, remember?” 

Michael startles a laugh, a tiny feeble thing, half choked, and looks away to try to clear his vision. 

“It’s not bad here,” Sam says, quieter. 

“Can you leave?” Michael asks. 

“That’s just it, Mike. Where would I go? Who else was there?” 

“Us!” Michael yells. “You could have came to Phoenix, stayed with us.” 

“A vampire in the house? Again? That wasn’t the answer and you know it.” It’s still not, Sam thinks, and he thinks Michael knows that, too. 

“David, though? You went with _David_?” 

“I know, I know,” Sam placates. “I mean it, though, Mike. It’s not bad here. I can leave,” he thinks, anyway, maybe. “I think I’m going to stay here, though.” 

Michael sighs. He’s let go of Sam, let him breathe. “Where does that leave us?” he asks, and Sam knows, now, that Michael’s looking for a reason, anything to stay, and Sam wants him to. For him. 

“Stay,” Sam says, simply. “There’s a bed here, if you want.” 

Michael doesn’t say anything, but the set of his face, his shoulders, speaks gratitude. 

“Hey,” Michael calls as Sam turns away. “Are you and David...?” and he trails off, but Sam knows where that one’s going, too. 

“Me and David? Ew,” Sam says and pulls a face. David’s beautiful, but Sam has nothing for him. “No, Mike, you’ve got me all to yourself tonight.” 

“Hey, that’s not what... come here,” he says, bundles Sam up in his arms and shakes him playfully. 

“Hey!” Sam giggles. “Mike, quit it!” 

“I love you, Sammy,” Michael whispers. Sam can feel his heart beat, slow and steady, but pinched, and Sam knows Michael means that more than anything. 

“I love you, too, Mike,” Sam says. “Now, come on, get your bag if you’re staying here tonight. I’ll show you my room, it’s nice.” 

Michael kisses the side of his head, listens to Sam’s protests, and lets him go.   
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> You are always welcome to find me on tumblr to chat.


End file.
